Punisher: Urban Hunters
by Cyrus Pemberton
Summary: The Punisher goes up against a violent serial killer who has connections to a drug gang. (The Punisher is a registered trademark of Marvel Comics.)
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

"Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel.

He is the only one who inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it."

MARK TWAIN

_Brooklyn Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York_

The city was quiet but vibrant. This is the place where anything can happen. New York City, when viewed from the air looks like a grand kingdom. One of the most densely populated urban centers in the United States; New York is full of things that make it one of the greatest cities in the world. The names Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, Bronx and the lesser liked Staten Island are known everywhere. Over 800 languages are spoken, from Armenian to Yiddish and from Spanish to Swahili, making it one of the most culturally diverse. Even if someone had never been to the city before, that person would have seen movies or pictures of this vast metropolis. Everybody knows the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, Central Park and the Statue of Liberty. The phrase "If You Can Make It Here, You Can Make It Anywhere" is not only a motto but a declaration of a person's dream to be whatever he or she want if they work hard and never give up. Cities are not only defined by their landmarks, but by their people, both good and bad, heroes and villains, cops and criminals. As Malvin Wald always said, there are eight million stories in the naked city, and this is one of them.

The night was cool despite the 75 degree temperature. Electric lamp posts illuminated the jogging path surrounded by fresh cut grass. Crickets chirped in the distant shadows at random intervals, creating an eerie ambiance like the white noise of a dead TV channel. Aside from the sounds of insects, the hum of electricity and the occasional police siren, the night was silent. It was just the way Linda Marcosi liked it when she ran.

The 24 year old nursing student at New York Community Hospital did this almost every night after her 9 hour shift, depending on the weather. Unless she was pulling down extra hours, or the weather was bad she would park her car across from the park near Gerritsen Avenue. Her jogging attire consisted of a sports bra under her "I Love NY" t-shirt, spandex track pants, and Nike running shoes. Normally she would run for about a half hour every night. Tonight however, she would shoot for a full hour since she had the day off tomorrow.

Somehow, the simple ritual of running after a hard day of dealing with the flaws and follies of humanity made her life a little more manageable. In the hospital she would tend to the victims of car crashes, gunshot wounds, assaults, burns and rape. The faces of the injured always changed but the message they conveyed was always the same: PLEASE HELP US. Sometimes she got lucky and helped saved a few lives from the Reaper; other times she had the misfortune of watching them slip into the next world despite all her best efforts. Tonight however, aside from a car accident over by Kings Highway, it was a relatively quiet night.

As she started her run deep into the park, someone else was following her from a distance off the walking path. He was a man of more than average size, muscled but lean from his time in prison. He wore a dark colored zippered hooded sweatshirt, dark blue sneakers and a pair of dirty, black sweatpants. A homemade mask made from the leg of a pair of sweat pants covered his pale face. His body reeked of sweat, crystal meth, nicotine and bad hygiene. This man was moving at an odd pace, quickly but silently through the tree line. A person seeing this would compare this to a wolf stalking a deer through the forest. He was the type of person that would put others on alert if they saw him coming. Linda did not see him coming.

As he got closer to the blond jogger, he began to giggle like a hyena on the Serengeti. Normally, Linda would have heard the uncommon and disturbing sound but she was listening to the latest album from Taylor Swift on her iPod. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice told her something was off, that someone was watching her. In a flush of panic, she turned around and saw nothing there. She breathed a sigh of relief and returned to her jog. In truth, there was no one behind her, but in fact off to the side in the woods beside the running path. When Linda stopped to look behind her, the stranger got ahead of her. He knew exactly where she would end up. When Linda got close enough, he pounced.

Linda was brought forcibly to the ground by her attacker. Rough, gloved hands dug into her flesh as she tried to fight back. No matter how hard she struggled to get him off of her, the 5'6" athletic nurse could not budge from the grip of the larger man pinning her to the ground. Suddenly, a shock from a taser ran through her causing her body to seize up as if she was having a seizure. While she was weakened by the shock, the man began to tear at her clothes with a look of deviant intent in his eyes. He climbed on top of her and she continued struggling with renewed vigor. Gloved fists pounded her face and stomach, splattering blood on the pavement and rendering her unconscious. The man continued his sexual assault until he realized that she would not come to. With a look of evil glee in his eyes, he drew a switchblade and stabbed her as hard as he could in her stomach and slit her wide open. This new sensation of pain caused her eyes to snap open at the cause of her rapid departure from this world. Her pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as the man giggled at her predicament. Finally he tore off his mask to make sure his leering face was the last thing she ever saw. He cleaned himself off and finished up cleaning off the body, a smile of yellow teeth and sick satisfaction crept across his cracked lips. In a final act of control over the victim, he took out an odd looking box cutter and carved the initials PP into her forehead. Another lovely lady, the ghoul thought. The man ran off into the darkness, giggling like a hyena.

A few hours later, the area around her body was filled with police officers, detectives, and forensic technicians trying to gather all the clues they could find. Two detectives peered down at the former nursing student with the same feelings of helplessness they felt with the other murders. One thing was clear: Linda Marcosi, 24 had become the latest victim of the serial killer the media has called the Park Predator.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"The noir hero is a knight in blood caked armor.

He's dirty and he does his best to deny the fact that he's a hero the whole time."

Author Frank Miller

_Stan the Stoolie's Apartment, Lower East Side, Manhattan_

Frank Castle, the vigilante known as the Punisher, landed another hard fist into Stan the Stoolie's stomach; air blowing out smelling like cigarettes. Castle's appearance was that of a man who was not to be trifled with; his large physique, slicked back black hair, weathered face, cold blue eyes and large white skull on his black short sleeve shirt.

With his stringy red hair and squat, overweight body, Stanley Keebler, 43, looked like a cross between one of those pudgy cartoon elves that advertised cookies and a perverted Danny DeVeto. His one room apartment was located over a Korean dry cleaner. The card table and folding chairs were scratched up and patched together with strips of duct tape. The "kitchen" consisted of an old hotplate and a dirty microwave on top of a small refrigerator next to a sink filled with crusty dishes. The old couch/bed combo near the window faced a decrepit TV/DVD combo Stan got at a garage sale. Food wrappers, dog eared, sticky skin magazines and porno DVDs with titles like "Pizza Delivery Orgy" and "Sindy Sinclair Blows the Mailman Part 8," littered the floor.

Stan was still reeling from the blow when one of Castle's thick, gloved hands grabbed his thinning hair and dragged him into the small, filthy bathroom. His pleas to stop were drowned out as he was dunked head first into the yellow stained toilet.

"I told you if things ever dried up," the Punisher said as he gave the punk a dunk, "you would be put out of my misery. Besides, you've been living on borrowed time ever since you beat up that hooker."

Stan struggled to speak as his head rose up out of the bowl. "Give me a break, you asshole! When I have something, I'll tell you!" Castle responded by putting one of his black combat boots on the back of his neck, pinning him into the commode.

"No news for me," Castle said as he drew a 9mm Browning Hi Power with a silencer and pressed it to the back of the punk's head, "bad news for you." The moment Stan heard the gun's hammer cock back into the firing position, he squealed like a pig in fear of the butcher.

Stan cried out with water dripping down his pockmarked face, "Wait! I got something for ya! There's a guy named Fast Eddie who's gonna sell some coke to some gangbangers in Brooklyn!" All of a sudden, he was yanked out of the bowl and he spilled the beans. Castle got the specifics and walked out the door.

"See you next week," Stan heard with a sense of dread.

_**PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL**_

_**Stan's info was on the money the last time. A "useful idiot" as Lenin would say. According to his info, Fast Eddie was a low level con man out of Baltimore who deals almost exclusively in stolen goods. He will be meeting with two members of the SIKs (Staten Island Killers). The meeting would take place around 10pm in the basement of an apartment building near Sunset Park. He also said that the gangbangers usually carry knives and maybe various pistols. If Stan is lying to me, I **__**will**__** take it out on him. END OF ENTRY**_

THE TRIP FROM THE LOWER EAST SIDE TO BROOKLYN took about an hour of traveling in the vast underground network of subways that ran beneath most of the city. At any time, day or night, people are on their way throughout the city; either going to work or going home. Inside the train to Brooklyn, Castle saw a cast of characters that changed with each stop. White or black, local or foreign, first timers or old hands, they were all different and all the same. They all sit in their seats quietly speaking or not talking at all. As for Castle, no one noticed him because he was wearing a light weight black windbreaker and black baseball cap, the Browning riding in a shoulder holster and the silencer sitting in a cargo pocket. Eventually, the train arrived at the 45th street station near Sunset Park. The area was mostly made up of single story stores and restaurants that catered to working class people.

Seeing that he had at least an hour before the meeting, he stopped in a local hole in the wall bodega for a bottle of water and a copy of the _New York Post_. As he flipped towards the NYPD crime blotter to look at any potential targets, he came across an article about a series of rapes and murders that have occurred in parks and secluded areas around the city. The police said they were increasing patrols in various areas around town. As Castle studied the photo of the late Linda Marcosi, who was killed several weeks earlier, he thought about what he would do to the son of a bitch if he ever got his hands on him.

Castle had to admire the location for this transaction. It was in the basement of a three story apartment building on the corner of 41st street and 7th avenue near the park. At around 10pm the neighborhood was as quiet as can be. Once inside the dark basement, he found a good hiding spot for an ambush. The plan was simple: let them come in and then cut them down. Twenty minutes later, the door to the basement opened and three men walked down the stairs. The first two were both members of the Staten Island Killers. They were both black in their early to mid twenties, wearing the standard street thug attire; $300 dollar basketball sneakers, low ridding baggy jeans, oversized green t-shirts and black do rags. The third could be none other than "Fast Eddie." The man looked like an undignified Ron Jeremy, with his unkempt 70s style mustache, greasy brown hair and second hand suit that hadn't been to the cleaners since the recession. After a little small talk it was down to business. Eddie reached for his silver colored suitcase and exposed the merchandise. Castle, upon seeing the contents became increasingly angry at Stan the Stool Pigeon's info. It was not coke in the suitcase, but in fact several AK-47 style rifles. The Punisher made his move.

_Jim's Diner, Brooklyn_

THE WAITRESS NAMED MARIA ran her fingers through her light blonde hair as she finished counting her tips. She always made good money at Jim's Diner. Sometimes she could afford more than just her rent and groceries, but mostly used it for her daily needs. She also remembered that she had to study for her economics test at Cooper Union next week. Maria loved going to school in the city and living in an apartment with two other roommates, but she hated the fact that the closest place she could find work was in a diner in the heart of Brooklyn. She wished she had the money for a car. Then again, with insurance rates as high as they are, and living in a city where it's impossible to find a decent parking space, money for a car could be used for a place of her own.

Maria LeClaire was 22 years old, and her physical beauty was matched by her intellect and her determination. Not only did she excel in the classroom, Maria loved to go bike riding and was a brown belt in Karate. She had come a long way from growing up in St. Augustine, Florida, working in the family owned grocery store, to living in the big city with dreams and aspirations of becoming a successful business woman on Wall Street. Up until she was 12, life in Florida was fun and exciting. Seeing familiar faces at the LeClaire Food Emporium during the week and going to the beach on Sundays were the things that she loved. Maria inherited her mother's good looks and brains and her father's strong work ethics. While at home she was quiet, she really came out of her shell when she was around people. Things were going well until her father died in a hurricane. For a few years after his death, it was just her and her mother, JoAnne. JoAnne ran the store while saving up enough money to send Maria to college. Eventually her mother remarried. When Maria arrived in New York, it was a difficult transition from the nice warm climate of the sunshine state, to the concrete jungle of the Big Apple. In Florida, people walked at a relaxed pace, with their heads held high, basking in the warmth and sunshine; in New York, people moved about looking straight ahead as if their lives depended on it. With her father's sense on dedication, she excelled in her classes and her dreams of living a comfortable life were soon becoming a reality.

After changing into her street clothes and saying goodbye to the other waitress, she headed outside to get to the subway station on 45th street. The night was perfect for a walk, not to warm not to cold. Feeling good about her upcoming test she decided to take a shortcut through Sunset Park. As she entered the park, someone else was watching her. He was wearing a pair of dirty black jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt. He thought about the blond haired waitress, how she looked down on him as he ate his dinner. _How dare that bitch look at me like I'm a piece of trash? I'm a man and you will submit to my will! I got something for you, baby_, he thought to himself as he stroked his growing erection. The Park Predator made his move.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"I have always been fond of the West African proverb:

'Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.'"

President Theodore Roosevelt

_Basement of apartment building, near Sunset Park, Brooklyn_

The Punisher stepped out of the shadows as Fast Eddie and the gangbangers were haggling over the cost of the AKs. No warning of any kind was given as he pointed the silenced Browning pistol at the back of one of the thug's head and pulled the trigger. The homemade sound suppressor turned the gunshot into a muffled thump. While the shot was suppressed, the remaining two whirled around to see the third fall to the ground with both a look of confused surprise and a nickel sized hole in the back of his head. The other gangbanger tried to yank a small .22 caliber semi-automatic from one of the pockets of his low hanging baggy pants. Castle pumped two more 9mm rounds into his chest, piercing the heart. Fast Eddie, who tried to live up to his namesake, was a little bit faster on the draw as he pulled a stubby looking AK-47 out of the case. He was fast, all right. Just not fast enough. The Browning chugged two more times; the first subsonic round exploded the cerebrum and the second broke the cervical spine, shutting down everything.

The whole scene lasted about 3 seconds from first shot to the last. The air was filled with the smoke of gunpowder. Castle checked each corpse, removed the silencer from the gun and left the basement and the immediate area as quickly as possible. As he made his way out the door of the apartment building, he made up his mind to go back to Stan the Stoolie's place and snuff out his miserable life once and for all. He knew that the info was bad and he was hoping that it would kill him. The night was brisk as he made his way toward the subway until an approaching police car made him take an unscheduled detour through Sunset Park.

MARIA MOVED BRISKLY through the park, trying to get to the subway as soon as possible. Suddenly, she was starting to think that walking through the park at night was not a good idea. Being an avid _New York Post_ and _Daily News_ reader, she read about a serial rapist stalking the city. Maria kept her purse tucked close to her side as she unconsciously moved faster. She knew she was almost out of the park when she could see the entrance to the 45th street station. A sigh of relief came over her as her mood relaxed ever so slightly. As she began to slow her pace, something slammed into her like a 20 pound sledgehammer.

The Park Predator leapt out of the bushes at the blond woman and slammed into her. When Linda opened her eyes after landing, she looked into the face of her attacker. His face was pale, almost grey in the glow of the moonlight. She had seen this type of face when her mother once volunteered at a rehab center. The most unnerving thing about this person's face was his amber colored eyes. They looked like the eyes of evil.

"Hey baby," the man said with nicotine on his breath. "I'm here to give you a little attention to your needs, bitch."

As the attacker grabbed at her blouse, Maria fought back like she was possessed. She could see that the rapist made no attempt to hide his face. This meant that he was going to kill her after he was done with her. She drove her knee into his groin and scratched her nails across his grayish face. The scratches and the blow to his groin caused him to howl in pain and anger like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap. Slipping out from underneath him, she took off towards the exit from the park, screaming for help as she ran. Suddenly, her body was wracked with spasms from the shock of a taser. Her pained scream for help seemingly filled the park and the surrounding area as the Park Predator began to beat her while shouting vile obscenities. While Maria was unconscious, the thug was trying to get her pants down while clawing at her breasts. The Park Predator was so in the moment, so full of his superiority, that he didn't notice the large man come up behind him and knocked him to the ground.

FIELD TRAINNING OFFICER Robert Klug and Patrolman Eric Ortega were patrolling the area near Sunset Park in their cruiser. The two cops were balancing their time between listening for any updates on the scanner, looking around for any possible situations, and talking about how the Jets don't stand a chance this year.

"I'm telling you, there is no point putting money on the Jets. They're never going to make it to the Super Bowl," FTO Klug said to his young partner.

"I guess so," Ortega replied with a look of boredom on his young face as he looked out the passenger seat window. Not only was he looking around at the scenery, but also for a pizza place; they were starving. "Besides, I haven't been that big of a Jets fan since Bill Parcels left the team." Klug chuckled at his last comment when suddenly a scream pierced the night.

"Jesus Christ, that came from the park," Klug exclaimed as he pulled over and the two of them exited the vehicle. "Eric, call it in!"

Patrolman Ortega spoke hurriedly into the hand held clipped to his jacket as he followed his partner into the park. "This is 11 Bravo 43 responding to a possible assault in Sunset Park; requesting backup and EMTs to our location!" The dispatch officer complied and sent out the notification for assistance. The two officers entered the park.

AS CASTLE HEADED INTO THE PARK to avoid the police cruiser, he overheard a woman screaming not far away. He took off towards the sound and as he got closer he could see a wiry looking thug wearing a filthy hooded sweatshirt and jeans, straddling a blond haired woman. The scumbag was trying to rape her. Castle rushed forward to put an end to this vile attack. The Punisher realized that with the rapist straddling his victim, he was unable to shoot him without hitting the woman. There was no other choice but to do this down and dirty, up close and personal. Moving fast, Castle swiftly moved in and slammed his size 14 combat boot into the attacker's side.

He could see that the woman was out of the action so he focused his attention to her assailant. The main problem with wrestling with someone is that your hands are occupied with ending the fight fast. He couldn't go for the Browning because it was in its holster beneath his left arm, and he needed his hands to strangle the son of a bitch with. The rapist however, was no slouch either in the strength department. Not only was he able to land a couple of good blows to the man's back, but also managed to hang on to his switchblade and jam it into his attacker's side.

The blade went into Castle's left side just below his Kevlar body armor. This sudden blow caused Castle to release the Park Predator and divert attention to the wound to his side. The rapist pushed up from under him and pulled out his taser and zapped him in the neck. Just before he was about to finish the blond lady, he could see flashlights coming from the other end of the park. The Park Predator made his escape over the wall as bullets began to fly.

FRANK CASTLE was coming out of his temporary stupor when he heard the police officers coming toward him and the woman. He could see that the woman was unconscious and disheveled but aside from the bruises forming on her face, she was all right. He could see the attacker fleeing through the park. Castle unsheathed the Browning and fired off a couple of shots into the dark where the rapist was. None of his shots hit because of the distance, and the pain he was in. Castle decided to make his escape toward to subway when the officers confronted him with their department issue Glock 9mm pistols pointed right at him.

"Freeze," the older, taller officer shouted in a commanding voice. "Drop the weapon, turn around and put your hands behind your head."

The Punisher did not want to harm the police because he had too much respect for them, but there was no way he would let them take him in. He let the nearly empty weapon fall to the ground, raised his hands up and turned around to face the officers who were about 6 feet away from him. He could see the surprise on their faces when they got a look at his face and the skull on his chest. This surprise caused a delay in their actions and Castle moved forward to force the Glock out the older officer's hand and throw it at the younger, Hispanic cop. With the two of them distracted he made his escape to the 45th street subway entrance. The two officers would now be occupied with the woman and securing the scene; Castle's priorities would be to take care of his wounds, locate the rapist and put him where he belongs: six feet under.

THE PARK PREDATOR made his way north away from the park, towards the rail yards. From there he could find safety in the subway tunnels; he always liked the dark. His feelings were a mixture of relief, paranoia, humiliation, rage and lust. He felt relief that he got away; if he got caught he would have wound up on the fast track to Attica. He was, after all, responsible for a series of rapes around the city according to those pricks in the newspapers.

His sense of paranoia was growing to dangerous levels. He was always so careful with his last "dates." He liked to think of himself as precise so that no one could catch him. When the man in the black coat jumped him, he realized that he had not one, but two witnesses. He didn't cover his face! He would have to deal with them as soon as possible; maybe get his friend to take care of things like last time.

He felt humiliation that fed into his rage. Who did this bitch think she was he thought to himself; try to take advantage of me? His testicles still hurt from when she kneed him there, and the scratches on his face felt like sandpaper in the wind of the night. He knew he was a great lover but couldn't stand it when women rejected him. It was the same back going back to when he was a kid.

Of all of his feelings he felt during his trek towards the tunnel, his lust was almost overpowering. He needed it badly and he needed an outlet soon. Suddenly, he saw a woman with reddish blond hair standing around away from the rest of her friends as they were going inside a night club.

"Yeah," he said to himself as the pain of his groin fell away. "You'll do." The Predator made his move.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

"In any homicide, your best piece of evidence is lying on the floor."

What Cops Know edited by Connie Fletcher

_The Punisher's Safe House, Queens, New York_

Frank Castle entered the safe house around midnight. Within minutes, he had stripped down to his underwear and began performing first aid on his wounds. The modest sized bathroom contained several military grade first aid kits, emergency medical books and a copy of Gray's Anatomy. After careful self-examination, the wound was not as life threatening as it felt; it was nothing more than a rather deep flesh wound that dragged along the left side of the lower abdomen. Castle treated it with some disinfectant to the immediate area, followed by stitches and butterfly clamps to seal the wound. Finally, he wrapped some gauze and surgical tape around his body. With the physical treatment complete, took some antibiotics and even a tetanus injection to prevent infection. When it was all complete, he took a couple of low strength painkillers so he could sleep without being completely out of it. He lay down on the bed and thought of his next move.

Like many of his crash pads located strategically around the five boroughs, they were all furnished almost exactly the same way: Spartan. Each one had a television, a stocked fridge, table and chair, and a bed. There was also a small supply of weapons in the closet. There were neither pictures on the wall nor any potted plants; things that would make a place feel like home. The last time he felt at home was when his wife and children were alive over thirty years ago. Any evidence of his former life was locked away in his main base of operations in the basement of a building in Brooklyn.

After eluding the police, the objective was to get to the subway quickly before the cops could mount a search for him. Once he was mobile, he made several stops around Manhattan, the Bronx and Queens to throw off the trail. It wasn't as easy as it sounded when you're sporting a knife wound and sweating from loss of blood. While on the run, Castle treated the wound with nothing more than a handful of paper towels from a subway bathroom.

Castle didn't know what hurt more: the wound to his side or his wounded pride. It had to be the strangest case of bad luck in history. Only a few hours earlier, the Punisher had read an article about the "Park Predator" terrorizing the city and he almost took the son of a bitch out after disrupting the arms sale. Castle began his doctoring with a combination of antibiotics and painkillers. The painkillers would help him sleep while the medicine does its work. As soon as his wounds healed, he would make the final judgment of the Park Predator his top priority.

THE AREA AROUND SUNSET PARK was illuminated with police strobe lights. There were police officers doing various tasks such as securing the crime scene and creating a perimeter with police tape, taking eye witness statements and keeping the media and the other onlookers away from the park and the entrance to the apartment building nearby. There were also forensic technicians gathering evidence and taking photographs, the flashes increasing the strobe effect to the scene. Last but not least, two ambulances were there, one crew treating the victim in the park and the two officers; the other was from the medical examiner's office to take the dead bodies away. There was a crowd observing the whole scene, with reporters setting up for the latest news update, as well as people recording with their camera phones. Oddly ironic, the neighborhood around Sunset Park was the safest place in the city for the moment.

Several minutes later, detectives Harold Schwartz and Jason Riesman from the Major Case Task Force arrived on the scene. Both men were white, in their thirties and in good condition. Schwartz was about 5'8" but weighed around 170lbs. Despite being in his thirties, his balding brown hair made him look older. Though not the biggest, the fastest or the strongest in his division, he made up for it with his determination and intelligence. It was these qualities that gave him one of the best closure rates in homicide.

Riesman not only was about two inches taller and five pounds heavier than his partner, but also worked out quite regularly. Like his partner, he too had a keen mind that complimented his stubbornness to get to the heart of any mystery. The two of them have been partners for five years after Riesman transferred to major case from narcotics. Many times these detectives were put on serial offender cases and high priority investigations such as this one.

The two detectives met up with the people in charge of the crime scene. The two men were Officer Eddie Guerra and Lieutenant James Bowen McClain of the Emergency Services Unit; the NYPD's equivalent of a SWAT team.

"So," Schwartz said after the four of them shook hands and introduced themselves, "what's the bottom line? Where's the crime scene?"

"Crime scenes, you mean." McClain said with a sarcastic grin on his moon like face. "In the park, we've got both a sexual assault that has all the earmarks of a Park Predator attack, and an assault on two officers who said that they had a run in with the Punisher. The two officers and the rape victim are ok."

Riesman gave a small sigh of relief at the update. "Where are the three of them now?"

"The woman, one Maria LeClaire according to her ID, was rushed over to Maimonides Med Center nearby. She's touch and go at best; the bastard really worked her over. The two officers have only minor injuries and we've taken their statements already; they're waiting by their patrol car."

"Ok," Schwartz replied after jotting down some notes. "What about the other crime scene?"

Officer Guerra pointed in the direction of the apartment building with police personnel going in and out of it. "Triple homicide, from the looks of it. I'd suggest you put something on your shoes before you go down there."

"By the way," Riesman said, "What are you guys doing here?"

McClain replied with a smirk, "Standard procedure whenever the Punisher commits a crime. We arrive and search for the son of a bitch."

The detectives decided to split up and look at the crime scenes with one of the plain clothes officers each. It was shaping up to be one real long night.

SCHWARTZ AND MCCLAIN were looking over the grisly tableau in the boiler room of the apartment building. Schwartz was looking at where the bodies were lying and he had to admit that this had the earmarks of a professional hit. Each body was lying on the cold cement floor in the same positions when they fell. Only one of them had time to get a weapon out. The fact that no one in the building heard any shots meant a silencer was used. This was also confirmed by the telltale burn marks on two of the victim's clothes. Off to the side next to a badly dressed man was a large silver suitcase holding automatic weapons.

"Take a look at this," Schwartz said with a sound of astonishment in his voice as he held up one of the AKs. "Something tells me that this don't look like a circle jerk."

"We've already got IDs on the two gangbangers," McClain said consulting his notes. "Eugene Stover and Antwon Miller, both of them are members of S.I.K., meaning Staten Island Killers. Basically a bunch of wannabe Bloods looking to carve out a piece of the action in town. We're waiting on the ID of that guy in the suit"

"You know what I think? I'll bet that the Punisher took these guys out and then headed into the park to get to the subway for a quick getaway. On his way there, he sees the woman in the park getting attacked and steps in to stop the rape."

"Then the beat cops enter the park and see him and he makes his escape," Lt. McClain said, finishing the detective's theory. "Let's get out of here so the CSIs can do their jobs."

AS THE DETECTIVES WERE BUSY GETTING THE FACTS, Lindsay Rollins was inside the nightclub not far away from the park. She and her friends were enjoying a night on the town when she realized that her sister Carol hadn't come in yet. She stepped outside to look for her and discovered something that chilled her to the bone. She saw her little sister lying very still in a secluded spot between the club and another building. Her dress was in tatters and her face looked like someone had been beating her. She was covered not only in blood from the slashed throat but also with a foul smelling clear liquid. Finally, after a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Lindsay Rollins screamed for help.

DETECTIVE RIESMAN AND OFFICER GUERRA were taking the statements of the two beat cops. Riesman felt sympathy for officers Klug and Ortega. After all, it's not every day you get a chance to see one of New York's most infamous residents; especially when they're within breathing distance. Ortega had a Band-Aid on his face where Klug's weapon was thrown at him. Klug was unharmed except for his wounded pride.

"So, you guys were passing by when you heard a scream coming inside the park. Then, when you entered, you saw the Punisher fighting a man who ran off and you tried to arrest him.

"You got it," Ortega said while holding an ice pack to his face. "I could see that the man the Punisher was fighting was white wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. He took off through the trees to the north. We confronted the Punisher and he dropped this gun. At that point he...he got the better of us." Ortega's gazed toward the ground at his last statement, his feeling of embarrassment trying to overpower him.

"Hey," Jason Riesman said with an encouraging tone. "You guys did everything by the book and you made sure the woman survived until the paramedics arrived. One thing though, you sure that this guy you confronted was the Punisher?"

Officer Klug gave a rueful smile at what he thought to be a dumb question. "Trust us; his picture is hanging up in every squad room in the five boroughs, it was him. Besides, who else with except for him walks around town with a big white skull on his t-shirt?"

The detective gave a little smirk at that statement. The Punisher was to New York City what Bigfoot was to the Pacific Northwest; if you saw him, you wouldn't confuse him with anyone else. After a few more minutes of taking statements, he met up with his partner and officer McCann. The four of them exchanged notes. Suddenly, another officer ran up to the four of them.

"We just got a report of a second attack not far from here over at a nightclub. Paramedics said that she was dead before they got there."

WITHIN MINUTES, the four of them arrived at the new crime scene and they all were feeling a sense of embarrassment and anger. Near the crime scene, Lindsay Rollins was a nonfunctioning mess crying her eyes out while breathing into an oxygen mask. Detective Schwartz was pissed off because this happened while they were all looking over the two crime scenes less than a couple blocks away. Soon, all four of them were feeling the same sense of anger as he was.

At nearly every homicide he had been to, when he found himself standing over a victim, he knew that this person's murder would be avenged no matter what. Here was this beautiful young woman, one minute out with her friends with not a care in the world, and the next she's lying dead in an alley like a discarded tissue. That was when he said to himself: We're gonna get you, you son of a bitch.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

"The further back you look the further forward you can see"

Winston Churchill

_Punisher's Safe House_

Castle hated sleep; there was no two ways about it. He knew that he felt better after a good night's sleep, but more often than not, his dreams were plagued with nightmares. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Soon enough, he was back where it all began for him. The nightmare was always the same; the nightmare that was his life.

FRANK CASTLE WAS BORN FRANCIS CASTIGLIONE in Queens, and raised in Brooklyn by his father Mario, a veteran of Pacific battles of WWII, and his mother Louisa, a stay at home mom. From the time he was a boy, he was quiet and intent on his studies. While his parents thought he was a little strange how he was so quiet, the truth was he was an excellent listener. He knew about where his father kept the key to his foot locker from the Marines; the box containing his old uniform, pictures of him and his fellow leathernecks holding up a captured Japanese flag, and his father's handgun. Frank also knew from tearful whispers at night, about his brother who was stillborn, a memory his mother christened Michael. Another well-known fact about the young Frank was that whenever someone tried to pick on him or someone else, he would not only stand up to the bully, he would win in a fight with the larger child.

From the time he was a child, the mafia were everywhere. In those days, the mob was still riding high after the end of prohibition years earlier. At one point his father told him how he and his mother left Sicily to escape pressure from the Bessucho crime family. In the neighborhood he lived in, the Rosas were in charge. Frank could never understand how Albert Rosa and his son Vincent were always treated like kings; yet he knew that these men who sat around playing cards at odd hours in front of restaurants, or would wear fine Italian suits while walking with a thug's swagger, were not what they seemed. Don Rosa's son Vincent raped two girls from the neighborhood and no one did anything out of fear. It hurt to see his parents frightened by people like the Rosas. One night, someone put a stop to the terror when the brother of one of the girls Vincent raped, found him and set him on fire. Castle saw the whole thing play out before him.

Frank Castle felt a calling in him to find his place in the world around him. After he graduated from high school, he entered seminary training to become a priest. Eventually he left because he couldn't understand why God would allow so much hatred and suffering in the world. Why punishment and penance must come before forgiveness, he did not know. The need to make a difference was still strong, so he followed in his father's footsteps and joined the Marines and was shipped to Vietnam.

From 1965 to 1975, the Vietnam War was the longest military conflict in US history. The warfare in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia claimed the lives of almost 60,000 soldiers. Another 304,000 were wounded and 3 to 4 million Vietnamese were killed and the country was changed forever. It was in Vietnam that Marine Private Frank Castle had found his calling.

There are several reasons why someone would join the military. Some join out of a sense of patriotism and the chance to preserve freedom around the world. Some people do it as a means of job security or a better education; a chance to get out from under the burden of poverty. Family tradition can play an important part as well; some pilots of the B-52 bombers are the sons of previous generation of pilots. Other people believe the hype thanks to advertisements and savvy recruiters who have said that it's not just a job, but an adventure. Then there are those who would be classified as adrenaline junkies and psychopaths, who join whatever branch of the military they prefer because it gives them a chance to do something that would get them locked away for years and years. It gives them the chance to kill and get away with it. For Frank Castle, his intentions at first were noble but as time went on, war had become his world and his home.

Castle's first tour of duty was during the Tet Offensive of 1968, the massive surprise assault that marked the beginning of America's doubt that the conflict would come to a satisfying end. In today's wars, the average soldier has the latest weaponry, technology and support to get him through the battlefield. In Vietnam, soldiers had to become better mentally at what they did or else they would come home in body bags. Vietnam was a classic example of evolve or die. As the war evolved into harsh insurgent fighting and guerilla warfare, Castle moved up the ranks in Marine Corp as a highly effective combat soldier and a natural leader. During this time he had made the rank of Sergeant and became a top sniper. It was also when he discovered the skull icon being used by a Vietcong sniper nicknamed Monkey. It was this symbol that would one day serve him as the Punisher. By the end of his first tour, he had moved up the ranks to Lieutenant and had gained the respect of his men as well as the attention of certain people involved in the covert side of the war.

While most of Castle's military service is well known to law enforcement and true crime aficionados, his second tour in Vietnam was by and large shrouded in mystery. During that time he was still part of the Marine Corps but working for the Central Intelligence Agency. Lieutenant Castle's time in Vietnam involved classified black ops missions against the Communist North Vietnamese and Soviet personnel. While working with the CIA, his missions involved assassinations, intelligence gathering, P.O.W. rescue, interrogations and long range reconnaissance. He became involved with Special Forces and learned from Navy Seals and was assigned to Marine Recon, the Marine equivalent of the Army's Green Berets. His taste for war steadily grew, elevating his reputation for being deadly in battle.

In 1971, Frank Castle had been promoted to the rank of Captain and was placed third in command of a Marine base called Firebase Valley Forge near the border of Cambodia. By this time, public opinion about the war had reached an all-time low. The base was neglected and full of malcontents who would rather get high than stay on guard for any impending attacks. Even his commanding officer would often say that if no one rocks the boat, then we can all go home soon. It was there that he was at his most ruthless, and had developed a strong contempt for authority. It was business as usual until one fateful night.

Sometime after midnight on October 30th, three battalions of North Vietnamese Army troops began their assault on the firebase. The Marines fought back tooth and nail, but they were completely cut off due to bad weather. To make matters worse, the base was out of range of any artillery. The fighting continued well into the morning, by which time the situation looked beyond grim. Eventually, at around nine thirty, the weather broke and Air Force fighter bombers began pounding the overrun base with high explosives and napalm. By late afternoon the 5th Air Cavalry arrived and were met by a scene of total destruction. Smoldering bodies were lying everywhere, most were burnt to the bone. The final body count ran well over seven hundred; one hundred ninety two Americans, an indefinite number of enemy forces. The silence was deafening.

Standing in the middle of the devastation, was Captain Frank Castle. He was bleeding from a dozen different wounds, caked in blood and gore, clutching a broken rifle. The most frightening thing about his appearance was that his eyes were like that of a dead man. The thousand yard stare. No one said anything as the lone survivor of Valley Forge was loaded onto one of the helicopters. After a few months in a hospital, Castle was leaving Vietnam for good. During his time in country he was twice decorated with the Bronze and Silver Stars, four Purple Hearts and the Medal of Honor.

Eventually he was sent home and he lived in Brooklyn with his wife Maria and their two children Lisa Barbara and Frank Jr. It was at home that he realized just how out of place he was. In Vietnam he was responsible for the lives of his fellow Marines and millions of dollars' worth of weaponry and communications gear. He could call in airstrikes on enemy positions to make the earth scorched with the power of napalm. Back home, he was just an ordinary guy working minimum wage jobs. His life at home felt strange to him; he felt like Heinlein's stranger in a strange land. Even the simple act of being with his family felt alien to him; despite the fact he loved them with all his being, they were like creatures from another world and he didn't know how to deal with them. Eventually Castle's strain began to take its toll on his wife. She hated that the man she loved and gave her two beautiful children was moving through life like a ghost. She wished that he would tell her what was wrong.

Castle loved his family, but a regular guy he was not. It is very hard for some people to go from fighting in the worst hellholes on the planet to just being an everyday person. He loved his wife and children and was grateful to be in their lives but it just was not the life he wanted. To him, death was something that only happens once in a person's life and so he wasn't afraid of it. Living everyday like a normal person was pure hell.

On a fateful day in the summer of 1976, his world came to an end for the second time. It was a bright sunny day when Frank decided to take his family on a picnic in Central Park. His family loved the idea and Maria felt that finally, after all this time, the man she loved was now coming out his shell. She was a little annoyed that her husband didn't talk that much on the train into Manhattan. Meanwhile the stage was being set with deadly surprise.

When they arrived in the park, the tension Frank and Maria felt was still strong. Frank was still trying to find the right words to say that would be the least painful, while Maria was becoming more agitated with her husband's silence. Finally Frank told her something that still haunts him to this day. He told her that he was leaving. Maria wanted to make the marriage work, but Frank's mind was made up. His reason for leaving was that he just was not cut out to be a husband and a father. He did not want to tell her that he was a better soldier than a regular guy. The last memory of his wife was the look of angered frustration. All of a sudden, without any warning at all, up became down, black became white. In an instant, the world stopped making any sense.

It was the ultimate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At the same time the Castles were trying to enjoy the sunny day in the park, boss of bosses Francesco Drago was walking in the park with his bodyguards. All of a sudden, the old man came under fire from a hitman with a Tommy gun. Almost immediately Drago's bodyguards started shooting back at anything that moved. Unfortunately, Frank and his family were right in the middle of the crossfire. Frank Castle had been under fire before in the hellish jungles of Vietnam, and had seen many atrocities. He had seen it all, but nothing could have prepared him for that day in the park.

Castle could only watch in horror as the woman he loved, the woman who only moments before had just been told he was leaving, take a forty five round right to the heart. The look on Maria's face was that of surprise and sorrow. Castle then turned and saw his children go down in a hail of bullets coming from both sides. Finally, he took two rounds to the chest and that was the end of their day in the park. Castle didn't know what was worse, that he had just watched his family die in front of him, or that he had thrown it all away only moments before and now could never take back the words he said.

Castle became a shell of himself until he found out who was responsible for what had happened. The law was no help to him because certain high ranking people were in the mob's pocket. He knew what he had to do. In the service of his country, he was and always would be a Marine. So he used the training and the cunning he forged to perfection in Vietnam to bring a new kind of war to a long standing enemy. He tracked down the old man from the park and his bodyguards as well as the thugs who tried to kill him. These were the scum who dragged his family into their war. After some time he had killed them all and got his revenge, yet once it was all done, he kept going. Frank Castle became someone who would never stop what he was doing until his death. He knew that he would never get them all, but he now found himself in a war that would never end. It was a war against an incredible foe that would never stop. That suited the man now known to criminals everywhere as the Punisher just fine.

CASTLE WOKE WITH A START as he rose up from the bed. It was now morning, later than he would have liked it to be. He went to the bathroom to check on his injury and got back to work. There was never any shortage of it.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

"However carefully you sneak up on a mirror, your reflection always looks you straight in the eye."

Robert De Nero as Louis Cypher, Angel Heart (1987)

_Punisher's Safe House, Queens, New York_

The florescent lights illuminated the bathroom as Castle viewed himself in the mirror. He could see that the wound was healing nicely and it didn't look like there was a chance of any infection. He hardly paid attention to the numerous scars that crisscrossed his body. Despite being in his early sixties, he kept himself in near perfect physical condition thanks to a rigorous exercise regimen. Castle had the body that most professional soldiers in their forties would envy. Whenever he looked at himself in the mirror, however, every gunshot, knife, bomb, and burn wound that covered most of his body, was a strong reminder that, despite his legendary status, he was still only human.

After a shower and a fresh change of clothes, Castle stepped outside and headed to a diner for some breakfast at around ten in the morning. The waitress and the other patrons didn't recognize him because of a Yankees hat and sunglasses. One of the best ways to move around is by hiding in plain sight. As he consumed his meal of eggs and bacon, he poured over the papers. The article in the Daily News said it all:

**DARK TIMES IN SUNSET PARK**

**By James Larson**

**News Police Bureau Chief**

**THE NORMALLY quiet neighborhood of Sunset Park in Brooklyn was the scene of a series of brutal murders and assaults by both the perverted psycho known as "The Park Predator," and notorious vigilante Frank Castle, AKA the Punisher. **

** According to the NYPD, at around 10pm, in a boiler room of an apartment building on 7****th**** Ave, three men were gunned down by the Punisher. They were later determined to have criminal records ranging from gang activity to illegal arms sales. At around the same time, Cooper Union student Maria LeClaire was brutally attacked by the Park Predator inside the park. The 22 year old is currently in stable condition at an undisclosed hospital. An unidentified source informed the Daily News that the two men squared off with each other until the Predator fled the scene and then brutally killed 17 year old Carol Rollins of Hackensack, New Jersey, in an alleyway near a popular nightclub. **

** With a recent rash of murders combined with a dwindling police force, many residents and some city officials fear bloody months ahead. Some believe it's only going to get worse.**

** "I'm afraid to go out at night with a freaking serial killer loose in the city," Melissa Crashaw of St. Marks, Manhattan. "I'm thinking of packing it up and heading to my mom's house in Maryland." **

** The monster known as the Park Predator has killed at least five women over the last several months in various parks in the New York area. Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly said in a press briefing last night that a special task force is being put together to "bring this perverted menace to justice." Meanwhile, the NYPD is stepping up its efforts to apprehend the Punisher before more violence occurs. **

** Castle, whose wife Maria and two children Lisa and Frank junior were gunned down in the crossfire of a mob shootout in 1976, has waged a one-man war on crime for over thirty years. In that time, according to local, state and federal law enforcement sources, the Punisher may have committed as many as several hundred murders. Despite the argument that his victims were all criminals themselves, there has not been much public outcry for his arrest. He is still at large somewhere in the New York Metropolitan Area.**

The article showed photos of the park where it happened, as well as two more showing the woman who was attacked and the girl who was murdered. The picture of Maria LeClaire struck a cord deep within his soul, because she strongly reminded him of his long dead wife, who died along with his family on that terrible day a lifetime ago. Castle fought off the overpowering urge to throw the newspaper across the diner. He was pissed at himself for not being able to stop the son of a bitch from killing that girl. On the other hand, he had informants that could help steer him in the right direction to putting this creep six feet under. Castle paid his bill and left a hefty tip, it was time to settle the account of Stan Keebler.

_**PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL**_

_** I can't help feeling like I failed that woman outside of the club. Here is this scumbag who is targeting women who satisfy his twisted needs and I couldn't stop him from striking again. Serial killers have always pissed me off because they think they can use the innocent in their perverted fantasies. They're also very difficult to track because they are the most unpredictable. Either I kill him or the police will put him in jail.**_

_** A drug dealer sells crack to 6**__**th **__**graders for money. A car thief steals cars for fun or profit. A child molester rapes a 9 year old for sex. These are the types of people who are the easiest to track because their motives are all base needs. This bastard will be harder to track because his motives are all his own. To me a serial killer is no different than a terrorist. Ted Bundy was no different from Osama bin Laden, they both spread fear through the death of innocent people. No matter how long it takes, I am going to get this bastard.**_

CASTLE KICKED THE DOOR OFF THE HINGES as he made his way into Keebler's apartment, his .45 at the ready. It didn't take him long to notice that the fat bastard was nowhere to be found. It mattered little to him because he had a vast collection of informants across the city; Stan the Stoolie would get his one day. As he made his way out of the apartment, he pulled out one of his disposable cell phones and called an informant he had used before.

"Christie, it me," Frank said to his informant. Christie was a former prostitute and heroin user who fed the Punisher with information from certain johns who had sex with her. Several years ago, she almost became the victim of a Serbian white slavery outfit. She had since dropped out of the trade and ran a help center for homeless people and transients. It's a well-known fact that a street walker who's into drugs knows more about what's going on than anybody else, including the police, the mob and everyone in between. These are the people who stand there watching and listening to everything around them. Christie was not only a virtual library of knowledge herself, she was close with a number of other hookers and homeless who fed her information that she could give to him. Whether he got good news or bad, he would give money to her to build a shelter for abuse victims.

"Hey, Frank. How's things been with you?"

"I need some information on the Park Predator," he said, cutting right to the chase. "Do you know anyone who's good in Brooklyn?"

"I think I can find someone for you. I'll hook you up with Rachel; do you have a pen?"

_Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn_

CASTLE ARRIVED AT THE LOCATION to meet with Rachel near where the other hookers were plying their trade. The area was an alleyway off the main roads where prospective johns could check out the merchandise. Not far away their pimp, a black man with long dreadlocks and a yellow and purple Lakers jersey was keeping a close watch on the scene.

Castle sat down next to Rachel on a bench not far away from the trolling johns. She was wearing an old and somewhat tight fitting dark green dress that left enough to the imagination. Her hair was brown but streaked with red in some places. Her makeup looked forced and done in a hurry, as if she had to be perfect all the time. She was also chewing a piece of nicotine gum like a cow. Rachel was about 37 going on 60; the result of a life on the streets. It may be hard out there for a pimp, but a hooker's life is hardly glamorous.

"Christie told me to expect you, big man. It's not every day you meet a 'superhero' very often," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

"What have you heard about the Park Predator aside from what's in the newspapers?"

"Not very much," she said in between popping her gum. "I do know that he likes blonds according to the papers. He won't come anywhere near girls like us; I found this out from Trixie over on Christopher Street in the Village. This was a few weeks ago; she told me she sees this creepy looking guy walking down the street and the guy looked right through her."

While Castle was listening to Christie tell her story, his eyes were focused on a small girl standing on the corner with the other hookers. She looked very young and had a sad, detached look in her eyes. She looked about 13 or 14. On the surface their appeared to be no emotion but on the inside he could feel his anger building to a seething boil. He continued to listen to Christie's information while observing the pimp and how far away he was from the rest of them.

"I did hear from a guy I know at a methadone clinic that the Park Predator is hooked up with a gang of meth heads somewhere in the city. I don't have a name but they can be pretty dangerous."

"How old is she," Castle finally spoke up for the first time in several minutes. Christie looked up and saw he was talking about the young girl on the corner.

"Her? Jesus, I'm not sure. I don't even know her name; only that she came from Atlanta. Tray Dog found her at Port Authority.

"Is she hooked on anything yet," Castle asked as his blood began to boil; his voice sounding like a growl.

"What the fuck are you now," Christie asked sarcastically in between chewing her gum, "some kind of a lunatic social worker?"

Castle got up from the bench and made his way very casually over to the pimp. His mannerisms were so calm and nonthreatening that to Christie what happened next caught her off guard. In one swift movement, he grabbed Tray Dog around the throat and dragged him into the alley without even breaking his stride. No one but Christie noticed. She was so shocked by the abduction that the nicotine gum she was so adamantly chewing fell out of her mouth. She was frozen in place as she heard what sounded like a melon being repeatedly bashed against a wall. Even from where she was sitting, she could clearly see Castle punching Tray in the face. The sound was like a terrifying beat to a song only she could hear. The rest of the world kept right on with its business, not realizing that someone was getting murdered less than fifty yards away from where she was sitting. Finally, the man broke Tray's neck like a twig. The sun was shining, people were playing basketball not far away, and a man was murdered and no one but her noticed. A few minutes later Frank Castle, the man known as the Punisher, walked back towards her. She could see him removing a pair of brass knuckles and cleaning his hands with a moist hand wipe. When he finally walked up to her, he gave her a money clip loaded with fifties and hundreds.

"I want you to do two things for me," Castle said to the woman seated before him, his voice even and emotionless. "I want you to give that kid half of this money and put her back on the bus to Atlanta." He turned and walked towards his car as if nothing happened on that nice sunny day.

"W-What's the second thing you want me do," she said with fear in her voice.

Castle turned back and looked right at her with ice blue emotionless eyes. "Tell the new guy that I'm out there," he said and then casually walked back to his car as if nothing happened.

Christie had no idea how long she sat there holding Tray Dog's money clip. She could see that there were drops of blood spattered on it. In the distance she saw Tray Dog, who only minutes ago was alive and watching the girls, was now lying in the dirt of the alleyway, with his face smashed to a pulp and his head resting at a funny angle. Christie knew that now was a good time to think about a career change. She tried to light a Marlboro but her hands were shaking too much.

MEANWHILE, MARIA LECLAIRE WAS IN ANOTHER WORLD. Everywhere she turned, she was confronted by the face of the man who attacked her in the park. A nightmare is a place where the dreamer cannot win against the force that is trying to hurt you. The events of the attack played out in her mind with a feverish ferocity. In her nightmare, the rapist attacked her like a hyena on top of a gazelle. She fought back with all her might but it was not enough to hold back the vicious onslaught. She watched in horror as he produced an impossibly large knife; the shining blade a strange contrast to the killer's sharp, yellow teeth. Just before the rapist plunged the knife into her belly she awoke with a scream.

As she transitioned from sleep to consciousness, Maria discovered that she was not in her apartment in Brooklyn. She was laying a bed but it wasn't her own. Instead of the smell of her plants and fresh sheets, the odor of antiseptic filled the room. She could hear the sounds of a heart rate monitor steadily beeping, letting her know that she was still among the living. Her sweat drenched skin was covered by a gown and there was a dull pain in her arm from the IV dripping fluids into her body.

She realized that she was lying in a hospital bed. Maria gazed into the mirror by the door of her room and saw some of the injuries. There were purple bruises about her face, neck and torso. She began to cry because she had been that close to defilement and death if it were not for that stranger jumping in to help her.

"Doctor," the nurse in her room called out, "she's awake." The nurse, a husky Jamaican woman in her forties, leaned over and took her by the hand. "Don't worry child, everything's gonna be alright now." Maria fell back into an exhaustive sleep by the time the doctor informed the police that Maria LeClaire was conscious.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"The psychiatrist knows all and does nothing.

The surgeon knows nothing and does all.

The dermatologist knows nothing and does nothing.

The pathologist knows everything, but a day too late"

Old Adage

_Major Case Squad Room, One Police Plaza, Manhattan_

The area around detectives Harold Schwartz and Jason Riesman's desks was full of energy, with office personnel and police officers going from one place to another. Law enforcement has always been a world unto itself and One Police Plaza, located near the west side highway, is the hub of all police work ranging from forensics to internal affairs. While this beehive of activity was all around them, the two men were pouring over the case files with officers Guerra and McClain. The officers reported to Major Case at around 6:30.

In addition to the current roster, two more arrived soon after. FBI Special Agent Nicolas Patrioli of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, Virginia, and detective Tom Santos of NYPD Special Operations respectively, would bring their experience to stopping the Park Predator. While these six men would be leading the investigation, the task force had investigators from the Special Victims Squad, as well as the detectives who originally handled the earlier crimes before it was handed off to MCS.

Patrioli was an expert with serial crimes. Recently, he had worked as a consultant on a former deliveryman who kidnapped, raped and humiliated seven women in several cities in Japan. Although the rapist claimed to not know who the women were, Agent Patrioli was able to determine that the deliveryman used their purchases as a way to stalk them. The rapist is currently serving life for all his crimes.

Detective Tom Santos, with his wiry appearance, long hair and spotty facial hair, was a great asset as an undercover officer. His efforts have resulted in 38 arrests and convictions of known drug dealers. As the men conversed with each other, detective Schwartz's thoughts drifted back to their meeting with the medical examiner, Dr. Amara Gopal, three hours earlier.

"QUITE A BUSY NIGHT for such a small area wasn't it," the doctor said this as a statement, not a question. The operating room where the autopsies took place was a cold and sterile place. Schwartz had always thought of morgues as processing centers where the dead are prepared before they're sent to a cemetery or a potter's field. The bodies would come in on gurneys and then stripped of whatever, if any clothes, weighed, photographed and then operated on to get the exact cause of death. Hospitals are places people go when they feel sick. Morgues are simply places where the dead go to serve the living.

"So," Riesman said as he and Schwartz were getting their notebooks out. "Give us the good news."

"Very well," Dr. Gopal said as she led the detectives to four bodies, three men and one woman, lying on their gurneys. "The three men died by gunshot wounds. The first one got a bullet to the back of the head which penetrated the brain killing him instantly. The other two received two shots a piece; one died from fatal wounds to the aorta and the left ventricle, the other from two expertly placed shots to the head and neck. These shots severed the cervical spine between disks C2 and C4 and the cerebrum. I pulled five slugs out of the bodies that match that of a 9mm semiautomatic. I would say that their deaths were rather quick."

The two men were jotting all of this down in their notebooks as if they were in college studying for an upcoming test. All crimes were tests of both patience and integrity.

"We found a Browning in the park with slugs that match that taken out of the victims," Riesman informed as he went over his notes. "What about the girl found outside the club near the park?" The doctor's mood darkened when she removed the sheet that covered the girl. Her body was a mass of purple colored bruises, knife wounds and burn marks. The detectives barely held back their pity and disgust.

"I've seen some terrible things done to the human body before, but never this much in such a short amount of time," the doctor said with a look of exhaustion on her face. "She has ligature marks on her neck that shows she was choked and then revived multiple times. Bruises around the vaginal and rectal areas are consistent with rape. I found at least 28 stab wounds on her body, several were made by a blade consistent with a switchblade but the rest were made with a small saw blade because of the shredded flesh around the stomach. The true cause of death was when he tore open her abdomen and organs, starting in the vaginal area; she died of massive blood loss. I also found small burn marks on her neck, breasts, torso and legs. Do you have any ideas what they might be?"

Schwartz moved towards the operating table to look at the body of Carol Rollins. He could see that the wounds were made in a savage fashion. Despite his strong resolve a feeling of nausea entered his stomach. Every time he attended an autopsy, he gave a passing thought to seeing his first body.

Schwartz was only three weeks out of the academy as a patrolman when he found his first corpse. It was on a hot summer day in Chinatown when he found the body of a homeless man in an alley. The corpse was swollen with decomposition and his eyes were like two dirty white gumballs that stared at nothing. Being a longtime lover of horror movies, he thought that it would prepare him for the horrors of reality. He realized, as he retching his coffee and bagel, that fiction had nothing on reality. Since then, most of the time, he could look upon a corpse as nothing more than a piece of evidence.

As he looked at the burn marks on the Rollins girl, he realized what they were. "They appear to be the burn marks of a stun gun."

"That's would be my guess," Doctor Gopal said. "Normally it would take at least one, maybe two zaps to put an adult person down; the killer shocked her over ten times; most of them in the genital area.

"Fucker got off on it," Riesman said with a low growl in his voice.

"You may be right, detective. I'm afraid we may be looking at a true monster that has no regard for human life. Earlier I had to let the parents of this poor girl see the end result of this bastard's work," she said with a look of helplessness in her eyes.

"Is there anything else you found that we can go on," Riesman asked.

"It would appear that the killer poured bleach on the victim to erase any physical evidence, which is consistent with his last few victims. However this time, he screwed up on two levels," Gopal said. "First, when the doctor performed the rape kit on Maria LeClaire, not only was she not raped, they were able to extract human DNA from under her fingernails. She told the doctors before she passed into unconsciousness that she scratched the man's face. Secondly, that DNA matches that of a pubic hair found on the body of the Rollins girl. It will take some time for me to get a positive id from the database, if there is one."

"It's hard to believe," Riesman said as he and Schwartz were leaving the operating room, "if it wasn't for the Punisher being near the park, we might not have gotten this information."

"You do realize that we're in a footrace right now," Schwartz said. "If we don't get this killer first, then another killer might do our job."

"And if we or the Punisher don't find him?"

"Then we can expect more of this," he said as doctor Gopal covered up the dead girl.

WHEN A TASK FORCE OF THIS SIZE IS CREATED, it is done to not only apprehend the perpetrator as quickly as possible, but also to put the public's mind at ease that everything is under control. The NYPD's profiling unit coordinated with Patrioli to establish a profile of the type of person capable of committing such a heinous act. Based on the evidence found in the five known murders, they were able to conclude the following:

The unidentified person would be white in his late 20s to mid-30s.

Narcissistic personality.

Intimacy issues as a result of a domineering mother and child abuse.

Long history of psychiatric problems such as schizophrenia and extreme paranoia.

Early addiction to drugs and/or alcohol.

Criminal history will include stalking and breaking and entering.

Early fascination with violent pornography and cruelty.

Armed with the profile and physical evidence, the task force hit the ground running with renewed vigor. The day wore on as they cross referenced the information with known sex offenders in the vast database and looking over the previous crime scenes for anything the police might have missed. Most importantly, they had to figure out where the fiend would strike next. At around 9:30 am, the detectives were all informed that Maria LeClaire regained consciousness with only minimal injuries. This was the break they needed! Schwartz and Riesman headed over to the hospital Maria was at. The two of them were bringing a sketch artist with them for a physical description of her attacker. While on route to the hospital, McClain and Guerra combed through the sex offender registries to look at potential suspects. Santos worked with his contacts in Vice and Narcotics for anything out of the ordinary, while agent Patrioli, calling upon the resources of the FBI, cross-referenced his profile with known homicides in other areas around the country. As detectives Schwartz and Riesman headed down to Brooklyn, the two men felt a renewed sense of determination.

"I'll tell you this, buddy," Riesman said as his partner did the driving, "once we get this description from her, we're gonna nail this guy for sure."

"We have to find the guy first. Especially before Frank Castle beats us to him; and particularly before the Park Predator strikes again."

"You know, Schwartz, you make it sound like some kind of bizarre contest."

"Hey, I'll be honest with you. I got no problem with what the Punisher does; I mean he's gotten rid of some real scumbags. On the other hand, in some situations he makes hard working cops like us look bad. Besides, I would rather see this loser who calls himself the Park Predator get pimped out to every big bastard up in prison. You know as well as I do that rapists are the lowest of the low. They hold the same status as child molesters."

"Yeah," Riesman said with a sigh, "I guess I see your point, but even you know that a creep like this would be getting clothes, and food and shelter at the taxpayer's expense. You know as well as I do that a guy who rapes and murders a kid for his own sick enjoyment belong in a grave."

"You're forgetting one thing, partner. Considering the case we can build against him, he would be spending the next couple of years on death row," Schwartz said. "Besides, I made a promise to Linda Marcosi's parents that this bastard would be brought to justice."

"This asshole is in a no win situation. If we get him, he sits in a little cell for the next several years and then he gets a potassium chloride cocktail. If the Punisher gets him, then he gets a .45 caliber facelift and an all-expenses paid trip to a cemetery."

"Well, we should be there soon. I can't wait to put an end to this case." Schwartz said as they drove on.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

"The ape, vilest of beasts, how like to us."

Cicero, _De Natura Deorum_

_The Bronx_

While both the police and the Punisher were busy chasing down leads, the man known as the Park Predator was feeling very smug. His place was reflection of his personality; dark, filthy and heinous. Inside his small, squalid apartment in an abandoned tenement in the Bronx, he giggled to himself at his luck. Not only did he manage to avoid the cops and that man in black, he even got to have some free time with that girl outside the nightclub. Many times during that journey through the dark, warm night he thought he was going to be caught by the authorities; but it never happened. He celebrated with a combination of crystal meth and cocaine. He loved the high he got from the different chemicals, but nothing was better than the feeling he got from killing. To him, killing was even better than sex. His feelings of satisfaction were replaced with paranoia when he realized that the woman from the park was still alive and could identify him!

In a panic, he grabbed his phone and called his old cellmate Rick Dunkirk. Rick, a two time felon and head of the local Satan's Outlaw motorcycle club, was a suck up to him and helped him clean up any mistakes in the past. When Barrows was incarcerated in Rikers Island two years ago for drug possession, Dunkirk became his bitch for the next six months. Since then, he would use the sycophant for cleanup jobs.

"Rick it's me. I need you to clean up a mess for me," he said with a hint of desperation in his voice. "There's this bitch named Maria I didn't take care of last night and I want your help."

"Bullshit man! I heard about what happened. Besides I can't be connected to any of this. If they get me, I'll never see the light of day again."

"You'll do it if you know what's good for you," the Park Predator said. "Besides I can pay you a lot of money if you help me. Do you know what its like for the whole city to be afraid of you? It's better than sex, better than drugs! You help me and we'll be famous!"

"Alright, alright but what about the Punisher, did you forget about him? The papers said he was in the same area with you. I mean going up against the pigs is one thing, but the Punisher is one motherfucker even I don't want to mess with."

"Fuck him," the maniac shrieked into the phone. "I beat him and got away from the son of a bitch. If I can do that to an old fucker with a gun, you think about what I can do to a little shit like you!"

"OK I'll do it. Besides I think I know where she is; I'll get some of the boys to help out. She's as good as dead."

He turned off the phone and sat back on the filthy mattress. He hated it when people didn't do what he said right off the bat. It was very helpful that he had a gang of around 40 meth heads and dealers on his side. He knew they were losers who were loyal to him in the hope to be famous for their relation to a dangerous serial killer. Dunkirk had helped him in the past whenever something went wrong. He had done this for Barrows after his second victim got away from him. He chased her into a dead end alley and then killed her with a shotgun. He could still remember the look of terror on her face as Rick shot her in the chest. Her fear of death amplified his gratification of killing someone and getting away with it. It made him feel like Charles Manson. The best part was that they were well armed and willing to do anything for cash. The money was no bullshit either; he would steal cash from the dealers who frequented bars. After all, he thought, what are they gonna do, call a cop? The money he stole went towards more drugs and better weapons. He looked towards the weathered, discarded poster of Jack the Ripper on the other side of the bedroom. Beneath the poster were a handful of true crime books about serial killers ranging from Jack the Ripper to Jeffrey Dahmer; people he admired. These books were not there for entertainment, they were to help him become the man he truly wanted to be. A man people feared.

SOMEONE ONCE SAID there are regular people, there are rednecks and then there's white trash. For Daniel Richard Barrows, the man who would eventually grow up to become "The Park Predator," his life was destined as white trash right from the beginning. When he was born his blood tested positive for cocaine, resulting in poor grades in school and violent outbursts. He wasn't smart or good looking, and had no distinctive traits, other than bad body odor and a bad attention span. Daniel lived with his mother, Carla Jean, on the outskirts of Bozeman, Montana in a dilapidated trailer. His father had been seventeen when he died in a back alley from a lethal overdose of heroin. The only work his mother could find was as a truck stop hooker. From the time he could walk, he was abused by his mother as a means to vent her own rage whenever a customer beat her up. In one instance, she threw him into the wall of the trailer because he would always wet the bed. Daniel would wet his bed until he was fifteen. As if his childhood wasn't damaged enough, she would sometimes either force him to watch her have sex with her customers or she would make him wear a dress and pimp him out to her customers when she was too self absorbed in herself. One of his mother's favorite punishments was locking Daniel in an old refrigerator behind their home and leaving in it for hours at a time. Daniel had nightmares about "the punishment box" for years after that. From that day on he had an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Even being in the trailer would make him feel like he was being smothered.

To get away from problems at home, he would often be by himself for hours at a time in the woods that bordered the run down trailer park. His only form of enjoyment was catching field mice and cutting off their tails. He loved to hear them scream in pain before he bashed their heads in with a rock. Within a matter of months, his mother was arrested by an undercover cop posing as a john and Daniel was put into the care of child services. Eventually he was bounced around from foster home to foster home because no one wanted him. Without a lasting parental relationship, Daniel could not bond with anyone and eventually developed a deep loathing for everyone around him.

By the time he was twelve years old, Daniel was already the kind of child that parents often warned their children about. Any doctor would have diagnosed Daniel with a severe case of Anti Social Personality Disorder. When he hit puberty, he would spend hours alone in the woods masturbating, with thoughts of his mother having sex present in his mind. To him, sex and violence came together the same way peanut butter and jelly did. He was also often prone to fits of rage at the slightest things that annoyed him. By fourteen, he was already bringing knives to school and was eventually expelled for throwing a chair at a teacher for giving him a bad grade in English. His violent behavior and burgeoning criminal career were enough to send him to a juvenile detention center for two years for assault and theft.

While Daniel was in juvenile hall, he continued to be a bully to everyone around him. One day a group of larger boys ganged up on him in one of the dormitories and sodomized him. It was, in a way, a pivotal moment in his life. It was the first time in a while he was the victim and not the victimizer; he felt like all those animals he tortured and burned out in the woods behind his home. For the remainder of his sentence he never bothered anyone again but inside his anger and rage were growing to dangerous levels. To take his mind off of the boredom of his confinement, he spent most of his time in the library reading the true crime books that were donated to the non fiction section. His favorite type were about serial killers like Dahmer and Bundy; people who were not only famous for their high body counts, but also able to terrorize everyone around them. He felt like there was a kinship between him and these people. Many had similar backgrounds to him. Daniel's mind was made up: he no longer wanted to be afraid of the world around him. He wanted the world to be afraid of _him_.

Once he was released, Daniel was worse than ever. At the age of sixteen, less than two months after being released, a pivotal moment occurred. Daniel went out on a date with a girl from the local high school; her name was Sheila. He was obsessed with her and after weeks of effort, the two of them went out on a date. Eventually they began making out in the backseat of her father's car but when it came time to seal the deal, he couldn't "rise" to the occasion. When he couldn't get an erection, Sheila laughed at him. The humiliation was overwhelming and his shame turned into rage and he took it out on Sheila. As he overpowered and beat the blond girl, his erection grew and when she was finally unconscious and no longer mocking him, he raped her until the police arrested him and charged Daniel with assault, rape and attempted murder.

While in lockup he was screaming at everyone including the judge who presided over the arraignment, he even drew on a legal pad a drawing of a knife and pointed at everyone around him. At one point, he attacked an officer when they tried to put him in a cell. The authorities sent him to the Dixon Psychiatric Institute in the neighboring county because his mental state was as one doctor said "completely fucking atrocious." It was in the institute where he bided his time hoping to escape, because he knew that once he turned eighteen, he would be sentenced to life in a state prison for trying to kill his girlfriend. Besides, the last place he wanted to be was surrounded by a bunch of lunatics whose idea of fun was smearing feces on the walls.

One night, it seemed the gods were on his side. A lightning strike caused a blackout in the area of the asylum. The massive jolt of electricity resulted in all of the most violent prisoners escaping from their cells and attacking anyone and anything that moved. In addition, most of the records were destroyed when a fire broke out. It was this chaos that helped cover his escape to freedom. He could still clearly remember sneaking up behind one of the inmates trying to get to safety and stabbing him in the chest with an empty hypodermic needle. He remembered how the man would snarl and spit at him every time he went past his cell. Daniel took great pleasure with the look of pain and horror on his face as the needle's plunger sent an air bubble deep into his heart. At one point he realized that if he escaped, people would never stop looking for him. After finding a large paper cutter in an office, he cut off a large section of his left pinky and ring fingers so the authorities would think that he had died in the fire. During his escape he personally killed twelve inmates and guards before jumping into the back of a garbage truck. He left the driver in the cab with his throat slit; not bad for a beginner.

He treated his new life as an adventure. An adventure in murder. Daniel was filled with an overwhelming sense of paranoia once he escaped the asylum. To prevent anyone from finding him he would hide out in large state parks around the country. He loved being in the woods because it allowed him piece of mind and privacy to do what loved to do: kill. Whatever he needed, he took it, no matter what it was. Food, clothes, sex; it was all the same to him. In Daniel's mind, nobody was as good as him and everyone would do well to stay the fuck out of his way.

The most important way he stayed one step ahead of the authorities was to use different methods every time he was in a new place. The way he saw it, if you become a creature of habit, you become more predictable and there fore easier to catch. The first thing he did when entering a new area was to find a safe hiding place in the park where he would perform his "art." The next step was picking the right target; they often varied in age, weight, hair and eye color and ethnic background. The most important was to quickly disappear. Daniel could hide anywhere; one time he spent almost a month on his back hiding in the crawlspace of an abandoned home to avoid a police search in Montana; he survived on nothing but cockroaches and leaking rain water.

Daniel became a true monster when he worked because his goal was to be the most notorious and dreaded serial killer anyone had ever seen. He relished the news about his exploits in the local newspapers and kept clippings and mementos of his victims in a large loose leaf notebook that served as his journal. One article was about a pair of college girls who were mutilated, raped and then decapitated in the wilderness of Colorado, their heads were never found. There was another about a lone gas station attendant who had been burned alive and his money taken in Kansas. One time he suffocated a fifteen year old black girl in Oregon with a plastic grocery bag; it was one of the boldest moves because it was in broad daylight and less than a hundred yards from a couple of cops. The most horrific was the unexplained murder of a family of six in the swamps of Louisiana. He tied them up while they slept and then made the husband watch as he cut up his wife and children.

Daniel rose from the old mattress and turned to his collection of tools he kept in an old full sized duffel bag. The bag contained everything from screwdrivers and claw hammers, to various knives and even a crossbow he took from a hunter and a few firearms. He selected one of his favorites: a menacing looking drywall jab saw. The blade was twelve inches long and had a red rubber gripped handle. It was perfect for creating maximum damage with minimal work. Besides, he loved the look of fear in his victims' faces when they saw the wicked looking blade. Barrows then chose a replica of a 1918 trench knife. With an eight inch double edged blade, a brass knuckle-duster grip and a spiked pommel for crushing skulls, it was like something out of a nightmare. His final weapon was almost out of place among with the others: a .22 caliber 9 shot revolver. The gun was old but it still worked because he used it in a blitz attack outside of Atlanta. He placed these things in a smaller bag along with duct tape, ammo, throwing stars, Halloween mask, handcuffs, an extra sweatshirt and a bottle of bleach to destroy evidence. The most important addition was a flip open double bladed knife. One side held a single edged, flip open sporting knife that made a decent weapon in a pinch. The other contained a spring locking box cutter that he used to sign his work. He used the same knife on Linda Marcosi a few months back.

At last count, Daniel had brutalized and murdered 38 victims around the United States. He rarely used guns because they were too quick and he didn't get the satisfaction as when he used a sharp cutting tool or a blunt object. Daniel used anything at his disposal for quick clean kills or when he wanted to extend the "fun time." There was one problem however with his quest to become a notorious serial killer; all of his kills were in secluded areas and were not getting much attention in the media. Within a few months, Daniel made his way to the place where if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

New York City was vastly different from what he was used to for several reasons. First and foremost, he was used to the solitude of the forests. In the city, he couldn't go five minutes without coming in contact with so many useless idiots. He found refuge in an old condemned apartment building in a rundown section of the Bronx. He didn't mind the squalor of his new pad, and he was close to the subway for a fast route around town. Sometimes he travelled through the tunnels on foot. He always loved being in the dark.

When he killed his first woman, it made the front page of the Daily News and it gave him an incredible rush. After the second murder, a Chinese immigrant in a park near the West Side Highway in Manhattan, the media had already dubbed him "The Park Predator." The name suited him well considering that most of his murders were in state parks around the country. Committing these crimes in New York made him feel like the Zodiac of San Francisco of the 1960s. Up to this point he has killed eight people, both men and women. Now Barrows had a plan to make "The Park Predator" a household name like Jack the Ripper or even Osama bin Laden. He wanted to show the world that he was the next generation of serial killers; a man with no fear, no remorse and no compassion. A man who could do anything. It was the way he has always been.

Daniel Barrows looked out of the filthy window at the city before him. He didn't like to leave the building until nighttime, when everyone was home and out of his way. He already had a new hunting ground staked out; it was sure bring him one step closer to glory. Until then he would rest and do nothing; just wait for the hunt to begin again.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

"New York Minute"

The Eagles

_Maimonides Medical Center, Brooklyn, New York_

Detectives Schwartz and Riesman, along with sketch artist Colin Fortune and patrolmen Darrel and Rittman, asked for Maria LeClaire's room and were shown by one of the nurses on call. As they got closer to her room, their anticipation grew with each step. One of the orderlies led them into her room. Maria was lying on the bed pulling a pair of sweat pants on. The woman looked toward the four officers and Schwartz immediately noticed the purple bruise under her left eye and the cut on her lip. The detectives had already seen photos of her other injuries and decided not to draw attention to them for the sake of decency.

"Excuse me, Miss LeClaire," Schwartz said as he flashed his badge. "I'm detective Schwartz, NYPD. This is my partner detective Riesman. We're here to get a description of your attacker. Do you feel you're up to it?"

"I think so," Maria said as she was brushing a lock of hair back. "I don't know how much good I'll be to your case. I mean it all happened so fast."  
"I realize that you've been through a lot, but anything you can give us will be a big help towards putting this guy away."

"I'll do my best," Maria said as she began telling the sketch artist about her attacker.

DOWN THE STREET FROM THE HOSPITAL, James Retta was sitting in the front passenger seat of the stolen blue 2006 Chevy Impala; the interior reeked of crack smoke. At 5'9", a flabby 190 pounds with short black hair and beady eyes, he was a rather unsightly fellow. James was a loser who was glad he was doing this for the boss. When he joined up with the Satan's Outlaws while doing time for child porn, he felt safe and now it was time to man up. Rick Dunkirk usually thought of him as a fuckup but when the opportunity for this arose, he jumped at the chance to prove he had the balls for this. He knew that the LeClaire girl would be at this hospital; after all, it was the closest one to the Sunset Park murder. He was lucky that he could get the Murphy twins, Billy and Bobby, and Johnny White to help him on short notice. If anything went wrong, they would all go on a one way trip upstate. Retta never got over his seven years inside Rikers Island. The only thing that scared him more than going to prison was pissing off his boss by saying no. This was his big chance to show the boss that he was the man.

James was absently stroking the .380 MAC-11 in his lap. He just couldn't stop his hands from shaking. Shit, he thought, the coke was making him nervous, and being with these stoned fuck ups wasn't making things better. Bobby was messing with the radio while trying to reposition the Rossi .38 caliber revolver in his pants. For the second time in the last few minutes, he wondered if the gun would discharge and blow his balls off. Billy, who looked almost identical to his brother Bobby, with his shaved head and long goatee, sat directly behind Rick holding a pistol gripped, sawn off Remington 870 shotgun. Johnny was seated behind Bobby, nervously fondling an old rusty Beretta.

The orders were simple; wait for the bitch to come out of the hospital and blow her away. In case anything went wrong, there was another vanload with four more shooters loaded with weapons ranging from shotguns to rifles ready to back them up. This was as simple a plan as it could be. It was 12:20pm, according to the clock in the dashboard. As soon as she came out of the hospital, she would be one dead bitch.

FRANK CASTLE WAS DRIVING toward his main base after meeting with Rachel. In addition to huge array of weapons that he used in his war on crime, he also had a large number of vehicles ranging from motorcycles and sedans, to vans and SUVs and even dump trucks and armored vehicles. These vehicles served both as a means of transportation and camouflage. There was a time when he had a customized battle van, but that became too expensive to maintain as time went on. He realized it became much easier to simply steal or buy cars under assumed identities, and then put firearms and armor in them should the need arise.

As he guided the dark gray Mustang through the midday traffic, he thought of his options and how little he had to go on. He knew that the Park Predator was relentless and had no regard for human life. It was then he realized that the newspapers said that one of his victims, one Maria LeClaire, was recovering at a hospital near Sunset Park. Using the onboard GPS, he punched up the closest hospital. Maimonides Medical Center was only several minutes away from his present location. Castle headed toward the hospital like a moth to the flame.

BY THE END OF THE INTERVIEW, the detectives now had a description of Maria's attacker to go along with the profile. Riesman and Schwartz felt they were several steps closer to catching this monster. They now knew that the killer was a white male in his late twenties to mid-thirties, around six feet tall, with dark brown hair and yellowish brown eyes. He also had acne scaring, a scar across his nose and sweated profusely. They also had trace DNA from when she was attacked last night and from the deceased Rollins girl. It was that DNA that would be fed into the FBI criminal database to find a match. Now they had a general idea of what the perpetrator looked like. Schwartz examined the sketch closely taking in the drawing of a narrow faced man; his eyes set apart on either side of a nose that appeared to have been broken before, and the mouth a narrow slit covering yellowed teeth. What was most difficult for the detective was trying to get a feel for the owner of the drawing. He stared long at the eyes, trying to get a view inside the killer's head, but there was nothing there but the blank face staring back at him.

"Doesn't say much," Riesman said with an understanding look to his partner.

"Maybe, but at least it's a start in the right direction," Schwartz said as he turned toward Maria. "Is there anything else that you can remember about him?

"Well, I remember that he was really strong and that he smelled like he hadn't bathed in a while," Maria recalled with a look of disgust on her face. "I think I've seen this guy in the diner where I work; he really freaked me out whenever I came by to refill his coffee."

"How did he freak you out," Riesman asked.

"It was the way he was looking at me; it felt like he was undressing me with his eyes."

"Why don't you come with us to our office, and we can compare this to mug shots in our database?"

"If you think it will help, I'll do it," she said as she was rising from the bed after tying her sneakers. It amazed the detectives how eager she was to help out. In most sex assault cases, people are embarrassed and despondent afterwards. "Should I call my mom? She's coming in by plane and she's supposed to meet me here."

"We'll have some plainclothes pick her up and bring her down to our headquarters," Schwartz said as they all walked down to the elevator.

RETTA WAS LIGHTING UP A CIGARETTE when he saw the woman from the papers coming out of the hospital. The two cars of shooters were parked right down the street from the entrance.

"Ok boys, get ready. When I give the word, we drive up and hit the bitch and anyone else there to make it look like a nigger gangbanger drive by," Retta said this to both the two men in his car and the four others in the gray van via cell phone. "It's simple. We pull up, open fire, and get the fuck out before anything happens. We all meet back at the warehouse when we're done."

"Hey, James, I think those people with her are the cops," Bobby said. "Besides, there are a lot of people in front of the place; maybe we should wait until the coast is clear?"

Retta reached around and shoved the submachine gun into his face. "Maybe you should shut the fuck up and do what I say before I break my foot off in your ass! If we don't do this, we could all go to jail, and I am not going back!" Retta let him go and cocked the charging handle on his weapon. "Let's do this!"

MARIA AND THE POLICEMEN WERE about to get into their respective cars when detective Schwarz noticed something didn't feel right. His gaze turned towards the two vehicles coming down the street. Both the Chevy sedan and the white Ford van trailing behind them were bearing down on them at high speeds. Within moments, his partner Riesman noticed the same thing and their hands fell upon their sidearms. The two cops suddenly became aware of the number of people of people coming in and out of the hospital. Of all the places for a hit, a hospital was one of the worst. But why here and now, they wondered.

Suddenly they saw the van's sliding side door open up and guns were shown. Schwartz and Riesman reacted as one, covering the witness and warning everyone else. Both officers yelled out the same warning at almost the same time, "GET DOWN!"

Almost immediately, the sounds of thunderous gunfire and screams filled the air in front of the hospital. The shots were coming so fast that it sounded like a thousand jackhammers all going off at the same time. People were running for cover as fast as they could. Some ran back into the hospital to take refuge in the reception area; others were not so lucky. A stray .223 round from a Mini-14 slammed into the lower spine of a man trying to shield his wife from the barrage coming from the cars. Two hospital workers were both hit with rifled shotgun slugs; one in the leg and the other in the stomach. One bullet missed a little girl by only a space of inches; the round dug a deep groove in the stone wall. Many others were hiding behind vehicles, trash bins and anything else to avoid the onslaught of lead flying through the air.

When the shooting started the five police officers responded by calling for backup and returning fire. The sketch artist shielded Maria LeClaire while getting her to safety behind an ambulance. The detectives were behind the patrol car returning fire using their department issued pistols. Officers Darrel and Rittman were guiding a cluster of bystanders into the hospital while giving central dispatch the news. The call went out to everyone in the area with a police band radio. "Dispatch, this is 7-A-89! 10-13 officers need assistance code 3, multiple suspects firing on our location with automatic weapons; Maimonides Medical Center, request back up code 3!"

It was only seven seconds into the shootout. It might as well have been a lifetime.

WHEN THE CALL WENT OUT, the Punisher heard it on the police scanner and he knew that this wasn't a coincidence. He had a strong gut feeling that the witness and the shooting was connected. Someone was trying to silence her with a bullet, along with as many people as possible to make it look like a massacre. Castle poured on the speed as he thought about the arsenal at hand. In addition to the twin .45s in his leg holsters, trunk of the car contained a small arsenal of different weapons ranging from shotguns to grenades. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a shootout with armed thugs in front of a hospital but there was no way to avoid it. Castle's determination to get there was as strong as his need to protect everyone there from the shooters. There was no time to lose. He was only five minutes away.

THE NOISE FROM THE GUNFIRE AND SCREAMING WAS HORENDOUS. Suddenly a stray round from the van ripped into the leg of a teenager. While the wound was not fatal, the fact that the boy was in the middle of the kill zone made the situation very dire. Officer Rittman rushed to get the boy out of the line of fire when suddenly a stream of .380 caliber rounds peppered him about the chest, arms, neck and face; he fell to the ground trying to get him out of harm's way. Detective Schwartz looked on in silent horror as the officer went down in a hail of bullets. His anger overflowed as the four remaining cops redoubled their efforts and returned fire at the murderers. Round after round hammered the Impala and the van.

In the midst of the chaos, three more patrol cars pulled up and began returning fire at the car loads of shooters. One of the shooters in the van took a rifle round to the stomach and was out of the fight; his screams competing with the gunfire. A 9mm round from detective Riesman's Sig Sauer P226 struck James Retta in his arm which caused him to drop his submachine gun. A few seconds later the vehicles pulled away as fast as they could, with the detectives and other officers right behind them. Soon even more police arrived to secure the scene in case of another attack. In the midst of all the chaos, Maria LeClaire ran over to a little boy and tried to comfort him while calling out for his mother.

"Get us the fuck outta here," Retta screamed at Bobby Murphy while clutching the gunshot wound in his right arm. His hands were slick with blood as he called the guys in the van. "Don't go directly back to the warehouse! Lose these fuckers and lay low for a while!"

"Got it, James," Joe Souzza said as the driver guided the battered van through the busy afternoon streets of Brooklyn. In a moment of drug filled brilliance, he had him drive onto the Gowanus Expressway, taking the exit for the Long Island Expressway. The idea was to link up with Walter Leonard, the local head of the Satan's Outlaws clubhouse in Smithtown, until the shit dies down. As the two vehicles split off in different directions, the detectives followed after Retta while several squad cars took off after the van. Trailing behind the van's pursuit vehicles was a Mustang hot on the trail.

THE DETECTIVES WERE IN HOT PURSUIT. Their prey in the blue Impala barreled through traffic down New Utrecht Avenue. The air was filled with the sounds of screeching tires and police sirens. As the chase continued, more squad cars joined in the hunt for the shooters at the hospital. The radio was crackling with constant updates.

"ATTENTION ALL UNITS IN THE AREA, OFFICERS IN PURSUIT OF LATE MODEL CHEVY SEDAN; LAST SEEN HEADING SOUTH ON NEW UTRECHT AVENUE. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION: VEHICLE IDENTIFIED AS BELONGING TO SHOOTERS AT MAIMONIDES HOTPITAL; SHOULD BE CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS."

"Notify ESU for rapid deployment wherever they stop," Riesman barked into the radio as Schwartz guided the Crown Vic after the thugs. The plan was to flood the area with police and bring the confrontation to a quick and safe ending. All of a sudden, the Chevy took a left turn too quickly and crashed into a parked car over on 62nd street. As the police began arriving on the scene three of the occupants bolted for the car and made their way to the subway on 18th Avenue. The driver was unconscious, and out of the game. The area was populated with a large Hasidic Jewish community and Franklin Delano Roosevelt High School was nearby. There were far too many chances for this to go all wrong.

I'M IN DEEP SHIT, Retta thought to himself as the Chevy barreled down the street. The right front passenger seat was covered in his blood as Bobby drove like a maniac through the midday traffic. The wail of screeching tires filled the interior as the car made a bad left turn and slammed into a Subaru at almost 50 miles per hour. Bobby was slumped against the steering wheel sporting a nasty head wound.

"Head to the subway," Retta screeched as he tumbled out of the wreck. The three of them split off in different directions as more police arrived on the scene. His right arm was burning with pain as he stumbled through the alleyway near the subway. He no longer had his sub machine gun but he grabbed Bobby's revolver when he passed out.

Everything was going wrong and it was only getting worse by the second. James was a two strike loser who just led an attack on a hospital in one of the largest cities in the world. If anyone died in the shootout, then it would only add more salt on an already festering wound. He had to get out of the city as fast as possible; if Dunkirk or the police couldn't find him then he could start over somewhere else. As he was heading to the subway entrance, he could hear the blast of a shotgun followed by the pop-pop-pop of pistol fire and then nothing. They got those two idiots and now he was next! Get out of there!

SCHWARTZ AND REISMAN TOOK OFF after the punks as soon as the car stopped. Almost immediately, another squad car pulled up with two more officers, ready to join the hunt. The detectives went after two of them while the third, the man clutching his arm, went off in another direction; the uniforms hot on his trail. Within minutes, the pair was blocked by a locked door at the end of the alley.

"Drop your weapons and get down on the ground with your hands behind your heads," Detective Schwartz called out from just around the corner; his partner directly across from him, both with guns drawn. The one with the shotgun let loose a salvo of buckshot at the pair of lawmen while the other one ducked behind a dumpster. Almost immediately afterwards, Billy Murphy was peppered with 9mm rounds that brought his criminal career, and his life, to a violent end. The other one quickly dropped his gun and complied with Schwartz's command. As soon as Johnny White was in handcuffs and in the back of their car, the worst announcement of the day came over the radio: ALL UNITS IN THE AREA; 10-13 OFFICERS NEED ASSISTANCE, 18TH AVENUE SUBWAY; MAN WITH GUN AND HOSTAGE; H.R.T. EN-ROUTE; E.T.A. 10 MINUTES. As the two detectives jumped back into their vehicle, the tension of the situation was so thick it could be cut with a knife. It was time to put this nightmare to an end.

JAMES RETTA WAS TRYING TO STAY CALM. It was hard to do so while clutching a bullet wound in your arm and looking around for cops. During his run from the crash he threw his black leather jacket with the symbol for the Satan's Outlaws on the back. It felt like everyone was looking at him and he was feeling more desperate as every second passed. The feeling of the revolver in his pocket did little to calm his nerves already frayed by cocaine and the gunshot wound. It didn't help that blood was slowly dripping onto the floor under his jacket sleeve. _Where the fuck was the train_, he thought.

Suddenly a pair of officers walked onto the platform and began observing the crowd. They were on the lookout for any suspects to the hospital shooting and anything out of the ordinary would be a big clue. This part of Brooklyn was primarily a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood and was only a short stone's throw from a Black and Hispanic working class area. That's why it seemed unusual to see a dumpy, sweating white guy looking nervously around the station while wearing a black leather jacket with a 1% patch and a demon emblem with the words "Satan's Outlaws" on the back. It also helped that blood was dripping from his right sleeve and there was a suspicious bulge seen under his shirt. The man looked as out of place as a Reggae band at a KKK rally.

"Excuse me, sir. I need you to come over here and get up against the wall," one of the officers said as he and his partner moved toward him with their weapons starting to clear their holsters. The crowd near Retta was moving away from him as a few were capturing the action on their Smartphones; probably to post it on YouTube. Retta noticed a little girl who looked about 12 and snatched her up and used her as a human shield.

"Get back, you motherfuckers," he shrieked at the top of his lungs. "Or this little bitch dies!"

THE DETECTIVES PULLED UP to the elevated subway entrance just as more police were getting out of their squad cars. The uniformed officers already there were evacuating commuters from the platform to street level. Another officer informed them of the situation and that a hostage negotiator was already on route.

"This bastard isn't going to wait for the negotiator," Schwartz said with a sense of dread. In the last several minutes, the two of them had been in a shootout with gunmen outside of a hospital that resulted in serious injury and possibly loss of life. He personally saw an officer bleeding in the street and there was nothing he or his partner could do to stop it. A second carload of these maniacs was already speeding away to god knows where. Now the cops had finally cornered the bastard that had shot officer Rittman. Make no mistake, it was payback time.

Like many subway stations in New York City, the station at 18th Ave. had two separate sets of stairs heading to the main waiting areas to the trains. It meant that a person could enter the station from either direction at their own convenience. It also made it ideal for cops to create a crude but effective surprise attack on a cornered suspect.

Detective Schwartz entered one entrance while his partner went through the other. He could see that the hostage taker was facing Riesman and three other officers with his back to him. Perfect, he thought. There was a great deal of risk in this plan so Schwartz put away his department issued Glock 9mm and instead pulled an X26 Taser from a holster on the small of his back. The weapon was designed to shoot two wired barbs at an unruly suspect and zap him with a concentrated stream of electricity that would override his nervous system. He and everyone still on the platform could hear Riesman trying to talk him down.

"Come on buddy, let her go and put the gun down. You're only making it worse for yourself."

"Fuck you, you little shit," Retta squealed, clutching the child even tighter while aiming the gun back and forth from Riesman to the girl. His eyes were wide and filled with panic; he was breaking down and becoming more dangerous by the second. "Let me outta here now or else this little bitch is gonna be as dead as those people at the hospital! You pigs have no fucking idea who you're messing with!"

That it, Schwartz thought, just keep the incriminations coming and pay no attention to me. He had to give his partner a lot of credit, he never let on that he was just setting the dumb son of a bitch up.

"Your never gonna get us! Were the Satan's Outlaws! Dunkirk and his buddy the Park Predator are gonna own this town and there's nothing you motherfuckers can do to stop us!"

That's what you think asshole, Schwartz thought as he fired the Taser at Retta's back. Two needle thin barbs were driven into his back at high speed from eight feet away. The barbs easily penetrated Retta's jacket and lodged in his fatty back. A moment later, a 50,000 volt burst of electricity coursed through his body seizing up his muscles and he let go of the girl. However he didn't drop the gun. Riesman, who was closer, lunged forward and cold-cocked Retta with a wicked right hook to the face, breaking his nose and making him drop the revolver. James Retta was on the ground crying like a baby as Riesman cuffed him, read him his Miranda Rights and stood him up. Schwartz looked the bastard right in the face and said with a proud, angry and almost feral tone in his voice "We've got you now."


End file.
